


Promise Me

by rizcriz



Series: Quentin and Eliot Drabble Collection [13]
Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Post season three, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-10
Updated: 2018-04-10
Packaged: 2019-04-21 00:29:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14272944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rizcriz/pseuds/rizcriz
Summary: The monster gives Quentin his memories back.





	Promise Me

 

“You’re sad.”

Quentin looks up from his book, heart jumping into his throat at the sight before him. It’s been four months, but he’s only had his memories a few days. Before, he was just a stranger that pulled him into his life. Now... it’s so jarring. Because he knows it’s Eliot. He’d recognize him anywhere—Which is why it’s so strange seeing something new beneath his eyes.

He’s not sure what hurts more: having had been by his side all this time without knowing, or Looking into his eyes and realizing that while it looks like Eliot, it’s not him.

“Of course I’m sad,” he snaps, knuckles turning white on their grip of the spine of the book.

The creature tilts his head. “Why are you sad? I brought you back.”

“I don’t care about  _me_.”

 _“_ You care about me _?”_

Quentin scoffs, slamming the book down on the table and shoving up from his chair. “No,” He says, so vehemently, he’s almost surprised it came out of his mouth. But so much has changed. He’s not even sure what memories are real anymore. If Quentin is real, or if this…thing has given him another fake self. Is he Brian? Is he Quentin? Did he live a full life with someone he watched die once, and who’s body is now being used to house the ultimate evil?

Somehow that parts the only bit that feels real. Who is he? No fucking clue. But Eliot? God, he remembers Eliot clear as day. Remembers the way his eyes lit up when their son dashed across the yard, or the dozens of nights spend sitting outside, trying another go at a mosaic—a mosaic he can hardly remember—and laughing and wondering about what their friends were up to. Making up stories about what their futures would be. He remembers certain nights clearer than others.

But he remembers his eyes more than anything.

And, though, on the outside they’re the same, a soft chocolate brown that on anyone else would simply seem average. It’s what’s behind the brown. The fire inside. Because that’s not Eliot. That’s  _him_. It.

_“But I brought you back.”_

Quentin doesn’t say anything for a moment, but he loses all fight and sits back in the chair, slumping forward with his elbows on his knees. “I wish you hadn’t.” 

“You’re my friend.”

“If that were true you wouldn’t have…” He trails off, looking up at him. There’s that pang again. Looking at Eliot, but Eliot’s not there. For all Quentin knows, he’s dead. “You wouldn’t have killed him,” He finishes, softer. His eyes dart to the book on the table, and his stomach twists angrily. He remembers a day in the woods of Fillory—a place he can’t even be certain is real—looking at a greying, frail Eliot, and hoping to go first. Hoping beyond measure that he doesn’t have to experience life without him again. He remembers the guilt that followed, but the resolve that when it came down to it, Eliot couldn’t die first.

But then, Quentin’s never been good at doing things the right way. And Eliot’s always been stubborn. So of course Eliot died first. And then they started over. And Eliot’s dead again.

It’s like the universe has some kind of fetish for breaking them apart.

The creature moves forward, and stops just a foot away. Stands eerily still until Quentin sighs and looks up at him again. “He’s not dead,” It says, hand come up to touch his temple, “He’s in here. He can’t die so long as I’m here.” It smiles, “A gift. For my friend.”

Quentin’s heart all but stops in his chest. “W—what?”

“Yes! You’re my friend, Quentin. I wouldn’t hurt you. Not ever. Please do a card trick, now.”

His jaw trembles as he slowly pushes himself up, until his chest is but inches from Eliot’s. He looks up at him, eyes stinging. “How—how can I possibly believe that?” He asks, a whisper that he’s not even sure he’s managed to get out until the creature tilts Eliot’s head.

“You can talk to him.”

“I—I can?”

“Only for a moment. You’re  _my_  friend. And then you can show me a card trick. Yes?”

Quentin nods frantically, hands coming up to grab at the lapels of Eliot’s jacket sleeves. “Yes—yes. Okay. Yes. Let me—let me talk to him, and—and I’ll do whatever you want.”

“Whatever I want?”

He fists his hands in the fabric, choking out an angry, desperate, “Yes!”

“Okay.”

And it’s so simple, the way the creature says it. Like it’s tossing a ball int he yard or something.

And it is, Quentin thinks, as the fire flickers out, and something softer, familiar, slowly flutters in. Eliot sways for a moment, and then he’s blinking once, twice, three times. He looks down at Quentin, furrowing his eyebrows, like he’s not sure what to do. A violent sob rips free from Quentin’s chest, and he releases the fabric of the jacket in order to weave his arms around Eliot’s waist and burying his face in his chest, and holding on as tight as he can.

It takes a moment before Eliot moves. But when he does, it’s slow, hesitant, like he’s not really sure he’s the one moving his body. But one arm wraps around Quentin’s waist, and a hand comes up to cup the back of Quentin’s head, fingernails scraping at the edges of Quentin’s scalp. “Q,” He breathes, chin coming down to rest atop Quentin’s head. He inhales deep, like he’s breathing him in.

“Is this real?” Quentin asks after a moment. He doesn’t let go.

“I don’t know,” Eliot replies, holding on just as tightly. “I have no fucking clue, Q.”

Slowly, they unravel from one another, just enough that they can look at each other. Eliot’s palms come up to cup Quentin’s jaw, as his eyes—his eyes!—flicker between Quentin’s. His thumb strokes Quentin’s cheekbone, and Quentin can barely keep his eyes open at the familiar movement. “He—“

“I love you.” Eliot interrupts, “I can see and hear everything, I know we only have a few minutes. I had to say it.”

“El—“

“I’m always here, okay?”

Quentin’s hands come up to wrap around Eliot’s wrists. “I’m going to figure this out, El.”

“No you’re not. But it’s okay.”

“No. That—“

Quentin’s silenced as Eliot leans down and softly presses his lips to his forehead. He adjusts until he can rest his forehead against Quentin’s. “Find Margo, Q,” He whispers, nodding slightly, “Okay? You guys need each other. And I don’t—I don’t want either of you to be alone.”

“Eliot . . .”

“He’s going to come back. Promise me you’ll find Bambi. You guys can be each others family. I can watch. He’ll help you find her. He wants to please you.”

“But I—“

“Promise me.”

He squeezes Eliot’s wrist before exhaling softly and nodding. “I promise.”

There’s no reply for a long moment, but then Eliot’s pulling away. And when Quentin looks up, all he sees is fire.

The creature tilts his head. “You’ll show me a card trick now.”

He can still feel where Eliot had kissed his forehead. Warm, and tingling. His heart’s pounding in his chest, but he nods shakily, and looks around for his bag. “Y—yeah. Okay. A card trick.” He tries to ignore the way his hands tremble as he reaches into the bag and pulls out the deck of cards the creature brought him.

Eliot’s not dead.

That’s all that matters. He can bide his time until he finds Margo and they figure this out. Because they will. 

He turns back to the creature and offers a fake smile, as he shuffles the cards in his hands.

They’ll get him back for good.


End file.
